What's It Like Working In Jurassic (Park) World?

What would it really be like to work at Jurassic World (I’ll use the official title, but it’ll always be Jurassic Park to me, and that’s that)?

Logically speaking, it would be a theme park like any other we currently have. Long lines, a filled to capacity in the summer and only slightly less busy in fall, spring is a nightmare for security guards everywhere. For perhaps the first five years it would be something just shy of anarchy with the crowds. Even after the park’s first incident (you know . . . with the *mouths Indominus* incident) there would probably still be people to come back.

You can’t tell me people didn’t have to sign waivers before they were allowed to purchase tickets. Waivers thicker than the Terms of Agreement everyone skips over when they downloaded their apps, and in the very last ten pages of that waiver was an agreement that Jurassic World would not be held liable for any damages or deaths that occurred as a result of a very improbable breakout from dinosaurs. Which did happen, and some folks did die but mostly employees and not the tourists so, hey! Way less PR hassle! Yes I am ignoring Forbidden Kingdom, why, don't you(?)!

Anyway, like any theme park there would be workers. Not everyone who works there would be world-class geneticists, or biologists, or chemists . . . not everyone is going to be part of the marketing team or an executive right? Every park’s got to have their ground team. Cooks, waitstaff, bartenders, park services, and yeah . . . tour guides. Lots more job opportunities of course! I’m only giving a very basic overlay of it all, but the point is somebody like you or me could probably snag an easy seasonal position there for their summer rush.

What would you want to be? Petting zoo staff? Probably not the person actually, like, taking care of the animals, but someone who’s in charge of the crowd. You let a certain amount of kids in, time them for fifteen minutes max, gently request they have a nice day enjoying other amenities in the park and then continue with a new batch. You pick up trash in the queue, drop it in the trash, and have a mini heart attack when you see a crumpled Coke paper cup is being approached by the tiny maw of a far too curious baby Apatosaurus. You may find the curious nibbling of the baby duckie-- I mean the Parasaurolophus cute the first two weeks but then very pointedly scooch your chair away with barely contained aggravation for the rest of the summer. Perhaps you’ll threaten your zoologist superiors with HR when someone has the incredibly stupid idea to pair the quickly growing Pachycephalosaurus with a freaking surly, toddler Triceratops.

Maybe you don’t want to be that close to the animals. It’s long hours of sun exposure and smelling dino-poop so I don’t blame you there. Well what about the dispatch for the Gyrospheres? Put two people in and go, sounds super easy. Except maybe you’d be there just trying to do your job when the people in line complain about the wait when there’s only four of you and you can load two gyrospheres every few minutes according to a computerized system you in no way have authority over. Perhaps its people needling you to tell them facts about the dinosaurs. Sure, you were trained to give off a few facts about each one, but they wanna know about eating patterns and which ones have more fantastic markings, and all sorts of things that are above your paygrade. It’s irritating sometimes . . .

But! The moments that make it worth it are seeing people come back starry-eyed and speechless (or rambling at incredible speeds) after seeing such grand creatures. Sucking on thin slivers of sugar cane someone brought in to the break room to share on spring days, with a beautiful and gusty breeze offering such sweet relief. Getting to occasionally ride the Gyrosphere early in the mornings or on really slow days on the off season. The team member of the month gets to take another with them and kayak down the river attraction.

Maybe you’re not even that close to the dinosaurs. You’re just a cashier at a gift shop, or a quick service restaurant; just before work, or maybe a little after if you have time, you make quick stops to the petting zoos and the raptor paddock to watch the burly dudes there get into the most domestic sounding arguments with the insanely clever raptors. You grab frozen passion fruit drinks on your break and lay out underneath a cluster of palm trees just four feet off the ground, the sunlight creating shifting stripes from the blade-like leaves as the light pours through the gaps. You sigh, and you may or may not like your job, but you cannot deny the way your heart skips a beat when you can hear the faint bugle of a giant creature. You lean your elbows on the counter in front of you for just a moment, lazily surveying all who pass by before doing a double take and getting your first dose of adrenaline-fueled excitement on the job.

Focusing in on the very jerky movements of a very tiny creature, you start sweating even more when you realize a Compsognathus somehow escaped its enclosure. So you call your manager and swear up and down that what you saw was true, the thing just jumped into some bushes and disappeared! The manager makes a call to Control, who doesn’t really think it’s true but calls the Handler assigned to that dinosaur, who very quickly realizes they do not have every single Compy they should, and then things get taken seriously very quickly. They catch the little thing quickly, no doubt, but there’s a lot of strained throats from how intense conversations are, lots of having to rehash every single detail to about a dozen different people (including CEO Claire Dearing ---!) and being assured that you were absolutely right not to go near the dinosaur.

You’ll be let off early for the day, and somewhat gobsmacked by the events that happened so quickly, and actually being a part of something for once instead of watching interestedly from the sidelines, dazing you enough that you stumble to the team member cantina. There you’ll pensively roll a cold bottle of water between your palms and briefly shiver at the condensation dripping over your fingers and wrist from the motions. Your friend from the jewelry store (Pandora had a very lucrative business here with its hundred different dino-charms and amber pieces) would spot you and ask after your well-being, and then halfway through your answer plead for the full story. So you’d tell her there wasn’t much, offer what you could in a wary fashion because you were never told what you could or could not say.

A park ranger would gently interject with a smile beneath a well groomed beard, telling you your story was part of a million others. He would tell you about all his mishaps and adventures from the time they were creating the park because he was one of the first five rangers hired to this site. Your favorite would be his story of having a baby t-rex snapping his jaws over his backpack and refusing to let go for an entire hour. Another ranger would add their story of taking a terrifying plunge into the river where the young Nothosaurs were very curious. His only saving grace had been his strong swimming ability and the boat of fellow rangers yelling and throwing rocks in the water, scaring off the still young aquatic creatures. Others come to offer their stories; an electrician, a paleo-nutritionist, three of the window washers at the bird cage, and so many more. You realize how precarious working at a dinosaur theme park truly can be while listening to stories ranging from hilarious to absolutely horrifying.

And these stories are all swirling inside your head like the Rex-sized Jurassic Classic at the on-site Cold Stone Creamery you were treated to by your supervisor, as you walk back to the bungalow (or paddocks, jokingly called so by the administrators who worked to make the buildings feel like regular college dorms) for seasonal, college employees/interns. At least this year you got the coveted Dilophosaurus Den, in your opinion the loveliest place of the bunch. The building itself isn’t the most spectacular of the others, quite small actually, and usually filled with the tour guides and show narrators who don’t know how to “turn off” as it were . . . but the views are unmatched. The butter yellow building is caressed by palm trees with every breeze, and the west-facing windows and balconies provide the most beautiful sunsets you’ve ever seen, and it’s there on the balcony of your dorm that you’ll recount the story to your three other roommates.

Then they’ll answer the ferocious knocks at the door, and in will come seemingly the majority, and half of Compsognathus Creek (you have to laugh when you see them) to demand to hear the story. You’ll oblige, moving to the balcony so not only they can hear it but your neighbors who couldn’t fit into the apartment, and are hanging on their own balconies above and below you, telling them not only your story but the dozen or so stories you were treated to today. Someone will pass around chex mix and popcorn, and the interns with higher paychecks will generously donate their Coca-cola in glass bottles. You’ll suddenly fall quiet, a smile lingering on your face as you listen to someone reveal their own brush with a dinosaur and be jostled for not sharing sooner. Turning to the sky nearly overcome with a gradient of blue and purple, the horizon mottled with red and gold, you’ll smile and think about what else might happen tomorrow at Jurassic World.